


Gracious Honeycomb

by helianskies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Acceptance, Angst and Romance, Comfort, Established Relationship, Heart-to-Heart, Historical References, Identity Issues, M/M, Nationverse, Nude Modeling, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-21
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-26 17:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30109491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helianskies/pseuds/helianskies
Summary: Antonio asks Arthur an important question and Arthur gives him his answer. What follows is a short discussion about identity and nationhood, as Arthur attempts to explain to Antonio just exactly what he thinks of him. ⠀| ⠀{ EngSpa }⠀ | ⠀ Nationverse
Relationships: England/Spain (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Gracious Honeycomb

**Author's Note:**

> "Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones."  
> ⠀ ⠀ —Proverbs, 16:24

It was no real secret that Arthur could draw and draw rather well. He had a creative mind in many ways, and for the most part, what few of his works that he did decide to show others went praised and commended, imbibing him with a warm, honeyed pride and a sense of validation. But the majority of things he produced and drew especially were kept for private eyes—for _his_ eyes, above all.

Not for any one specific reason, mind you; some works he felt were inadequate, others were incomplete or experimental, and then there were the few that were… private to certain individuals as well as himself that he had no need (nor right) to show. 

One such work was something he was currently in the process of sketching. 

That weekend, Antonio had come to visit the Brit with a multitude of intentions and hopes, and Arthur had in turn requested something in return: 

"Would you mind modelling for me?"

He did have to specify that he was hoping for _naked_ modelling, because he enjoyed studying and drawing clear form and, well, he had such a good specimen to hand, he hated wasting such opportunities to effectively map out his body whilst practising a sort of abstinence… 

Besides, it was hardly the first time the Spaniard had received such an invitation to model. Antonio was far from prudent and certainly not shy, either—not around Arthur, at least. They had known each other for so long and danced to the same song so many times in the past… The fact that they were seeing each other gave some reasoning to Arthur's enquiry, but he knew that even if they had not been dating, Antonio would have risen to the occasion in the same way:

"As long as you're not making me sit in an awkward pose for several hours," a hark back to _ye olde_ court portraits, no doubt, "then sure."

As if Arthur would _dare._

The arrangement from there was simple enough. Arthur collected the few art supplies he felt he'd need (limited to his sketchpad, graded pencils, rubbers and charcoal, should he want to change mediums) and since it was a pleasant day, suggested they work in the glass conservatory. 

(Usually one would _think_ a pleasant day would mean venturing into the garden, but as much as Arthur would have loved for them to be outside, there was a stark difference between being naked inside and being naked outside. No, he didn't have any neighbours nearby given that they were out in the countryside together, but he was sure Antonio would feel more physically comfortable inside, without the wind slowly freezing him. And for Arthur, Antonio's comfort was paramount.)

The mink chaise longue would end up being part of the sketch. Arthur made it clear, once the brunette had stripped down for him (as slowly and sensually as the bastard knew how, at that, the tease) that he was not actually aiming to draw his front.

"It's not that I don't think your face is beautiful," Arthur assured him, Antonio only smiling at the somewhat jesting comment, "but I would prefer to draw something different this time, if you don't mind."

"It hardly makes a difference to _me_ ," Antonio replied in turn, his own tone laced with light, dainty playfulness. "You're the one drawing; as long as you like the view, I have no complaints, hm?"

Liking the view was a given, Arthur had to confess.

Still, with that established he had gotten Antonio to stretch himself out on his side on the lounger, propped against the rest on one side and relaxed. He wasn't so strict about how the other wanted to hold himself—just as long as he could see his full back. And now there they were, Antonio in his chosen position, leaning on one arm and lying quite contently like a regal feline on his side. While part of Arthur wondered what his face was saying during all of this, at the same time, he didn't doubt that not having to look at him in this instance was a little… easier. In terms of keeping his focus.

(Antonio was the sort to try and make it more fun, pulling faces, fidgeting on purpose, talking non-stop like the chatterbox he was when bored out of his mind…)

The sketching itself would not take too much time; Arthur had had much practice, and after drawing the basic flow lines and shapes, he found it easy and therapeutic enough to draw a definite outline of the other’s body and then go into finer detail. He wasn’t looking to produce a piece befitting of the Louvre or Prado, but he still had his own standards of perfection that Antonio himself met effortlessly, and it was merely a case of wanting to capture that, as he had many times before, on the page.

In the end, Arthur spent a good twenty minutes working with his pencils. Conversation had not blossomed between the pair of them, to his pleasant surprise—aside from the odd check-in to make sure Antonio was still comfortable, and in turn, if Arthur was getting on okay (meaning: _are you nearly done?_ ). When he was happy enough with the quick sketch and felt that, _that will fit in nicely with the collection_ , he got up from the chair he had been perched on and walked over to the chaise longue and his ever-so-patient model.

“Here,” he said, nudging the other so that Antonio moved his legs and gave him room to sit down, his body twisting so he could get a look at the pad of paper. “I could have kept going, but there’s a charm in simplicity, so I left it.”

“It’s really good,” Antonio assured him with a smile. His fingers brushed over the edge of the page and he then lifted his gaze to meet Arthur’s. “I’d make a comment about drawing French girls, but I know for a _fact_ you’ve never done this sort of thing with Francis.”

A snort of laughter escaped Arthur and he tilted his head. “Definitely not,” he agreed, “I prefer having just the one muse, thanks.”

“I think I prefer it that way, too.”

"Oh yeah?"

"You know that 'sharing' and I do not have a very good relationship," Antonio said with a tell-tale smile, meeting his gaze. Arthur merely rolled his eyes in turn. "I wish you'd tell me what you did with all of these sketches, you know. You must have quite a few of me by now…"

"I do," Arthur said, "all stored away in a secret place, just for me."

The Spaniard gave a hum. "Do you look at them when you get lonely or something?"

It wasn't said out of any kind of malice, Arthur knew that quite well. They both got lonely and both sought out their comforts; but there were other things that Arthur had to remind him of Antonio other than his haphazard drawings of him. Actual photographs, to start with, and two whole albums dedicated on his phone: one for their cutesy, couple photos (the sort you took on dates, or sneaky snapshots taken when your partner wasn't looking or didn't know you'd taken until they caught sight of the phone in their peripheral and they tried to block the lense and spare themselves the embarrassment…); the other album for— Well, for when Arthur felt lonely in a certain kind of way (because Antonio had nude modelled for him for more than just a drawing). 

"Or something," he said nevertheless, before sealing the deal with a quick kiss to the other's temple.

The answer satisfied Antonio enough, at least. He never really did question Arthur's intentions or thoughts too much—like he just accepted some of his behaviours and held no judgment over him for it. As if the idiot wasn't already loveable enough… 

"Hey, Arthur…?"

"Yes?"

"I have a question."

 _Ah, spoke too soon again. Though last time I spoke too soon, it was that time I thought he would be smart enough to not put that cup that literally said 'non-microwavable' into the microwave and it started to crack and he had a thirty-minute sulk about it, like the big man-child he is_ —

"Why don’t you always draw my scars?"

Oh. That was not what Arthur had expected Antonio to come out with (not that he could be sure what he _had_ expected instead). His eyes fell down to his sketch and, most specifically, the Spaniard's back—that fine expanse of warm skin that, as he had drawn it, was completely unblemished and untouched. _Pure._

"It's not a complaint," Antonio went on to assure the quiet Brit, "I'm just curious. Because— Well—" He gave a sharp exhale and reached his hand around to his back, feeling around for the larger marks still on his skin. Arthur leaned back only briefly as though to confirm for himself as well that the other was still… "They're still there, and you know I don't mind them," Antonio said, "but you rarely draw them in."

"Is that… a bad thing?"

"No, no, like I said: it's not a complaint, just curiosity."

Arthur nodded and took a few seconds to think up a semi-decent response, before he simply said: "It's because I don't see them."

That had Antonio greatly confused. He moved and sat properly on the lounger and began a sort of inspection of himself, looking at some of the smaller scars on his arms, a bigger one lower down on his chest, a few others littered like sprinkles on his legs—and then he looked to Arthur with a wary, incredulous glint in his eyes. Arthur knew what such a look was asking him. It made him internally groan in a mixture of ' _why do I make things so much more complicated?_ ' and ' _why does my boyfriend take things so literally?_ ' and outwardly sigh.

“I can see them, you numpty, I know they’re there,” the blonde clarified. After all, some of them had been ‘presents’ from him—some of them he had put there himself, watched heal and then reopened, back when all he had for company was wrath, rum and an insatiable revenge-boner. “What I mean is that, even though they’re there, I look at you and I… don’t see them—I just see you, all perfect and— _perfect._ No scars, no flaws…”

“But they’re there, I _have_ them. A lot of them,” Antonio responded. He still seemed so confused by what the other was getting at, which was…. fair enough, Arthur supposed. “You can’t just ignore them and— and act like they don't exist…”

And that was it: he _wasn't_ ignoring them. By not drawing all of the other's marks, Arthur wasn't trying to erase their existence or stick a plaster on old wounds so that he could pretend the(ir) past did not exist; he was creating a reminder that the other was _more_ than his scars. Or that at least to Arthur, he was. 

Because Antonio could say it however he wanted—' _I don't mind them_ ', or ' _I'm not self-conscious about my scars_ ', or ' _they are a part of who I am_ '—but he _did_ mind, he _was_ self-conscious about them, and Arthur didn't want him to define himself by them. He didn't want Antonio to think that he and his scars—no matter who put them there or what war had left its mark on him—were indistinguishable. That they were synonymous, a single package deal, eternally bound.

The Antonio who had earned such scars was a brave, daring man; he led armies, commanded respect with merely a glance at a person, had certainly intimidated Arthur on more than one occasion with his presence and reputation alone. But the Antonio that Arthur knew now—the Antonio living underneath those scars—was sensitive, wise, tender, funny, _his._ He was _his_ Antonio. Underneath it all, he wasn't the Spanish Empire, with its territories in the Americas, waging religious wars or invading nations or leading conquest, nor was he the twentieth-century Francoist state, nor was he the more modern Kingdom of Spain; he was just Antonio. 

And Arthur didn't usually draw his scars, because his Antonio didn't _have_ scars. _Spain_ had scars, some of which had even been sustained as recently as 2004. Likewise, the Spanish Empire had an entire collection—an archive—of them, and had also dished a damned fair few of his own across the globe. 

But not _Antonio._ Not his sweet, sometimes idiotic, but wonderful Antonio. They were different entities in one body. It was the same for all of them—for every nation—as far as Arthur was concerned. Because they were nations, _yes,_ but they could be unbelievably human, too.

He tried to put this into words the other would fully comprehend, without any chance of a misunderstanding or a bad wording that would only cause offence. In the end, Antonio started to digest everything that Arthur told him in an almost eerie silence. He said nothing. He did nothing other than sit there, sunlight blaring down through glass panes onto him like some divine spotlight, staring at the floor. Arthur was unnerved. He was worried. _Did I say something wrong? Does he think I'm crazy? Does he think I'm just plain stupid?_

"As personifications, we all have our scars," he swiftly pressed on, before the silence wrapped too tightly around his throat and heart; "and even when we live our human lives, they're there. Some of them aren't even visible. I mean, I have my fair share up _there_ —" He lightly tapped his own temple. "—but does that change how you see me? As a person?"

Antonio slowly shook his head. "No," he said quietly, "you're still perfect to me, even with your—" A smile almost completely broke out on his face, as though he were on the verge of laughing. "—your baking show obsession, and your dreadful taste in wine… Your little moments of self-doubt, or paranoia…"

With a small smile of his own, Arthur reached out his hand and stroked his fingers gently over Antonio's cheek and back again, nearly relishing in how he leaned into it. "So then you understand," he responded, "that I think you are perfect, too. In spite of whatever they represent, you are Antonio— _my_ Antonio—and you do not have those scars. Not when it's just you, me, and us."

"And you… mean that?" Antonio asked him. "You really look past them and everything they mean when you look at me…? After everything I've ever done?"

"Yes," he nodded. "Just as easily as you look past mine, and everything _I_ have done," which included giving Antonio some of those very same scars—not something Arthur (compared to the British Empire) could ever feel proud of.

Nonetheless, Arthur had not expected this to be the result of that initial request for Antonio to take off his clothes and lay himself bare for Arthur to see and draw and scrutinise with a pencil. He had not expected a conversation like this to come about all because of a subconscious decision he had made whilst silently working for those long twenty minutes. He had not expected it to end with Antonio pulling him in for a tight embrace because the brunette had suddenly become burdened with emotions and sentiment, unsure how to process what he had just been told.

Sometimes, though, it was easy to overlook something so simple as that.

To Arthur, it was natural—to filter through and see a person as they were, rather than what history had shaped them to be. Antonio would never not be strong-headed or courageous or ruthless. But even when his strong-headedness became stubbornness, or when courage became pride, or when ruthlessness became cruelty, Arthur would always see that person underneath, who somehow had a heart big enough to always welcome more people in, a smile as radiant as the sunbeams dancing on ocean waves… Spain would always be Spain. Antonio would always be Antonio. And they would be _different._

When Antonio—the sensitive soul he was—did eventually find his words again, he said to Arthur, "Thank you," as he rested his head on the blonde's shoulder. "That means a lot to me, you know…"

"I know," Arthur softly replied, a kiss being pressed into darker hair. "I love you, Antonio. I have for a long time, and I _will_ for a long time. You don't deserve love any more or any less than anyone else out there."

"And neither do you." Antonio moved and lifted his head. Arthur could see the tears had stopped and it was nice to a smile, all gentle and hopeful and warm. "So thank you—for loving me, and for letting me love you, too. Scars and all, whether we choose to see them or not."

"Scars and all…?" Arthur repeated curiously.

Antonio nodded and quickly leaned in, a delicate kiss being left on Arthur's lips, before he pulled back and pressed their foreheads together. "Scars and all," he confirmed.

And in the end, Arthur was okay with that. 

**Author's Note:**

> this was totally meant to just be cutesy titanic-esque nude modelling but because it's me and i have literally no self control it became angsty and a commentary and i—
> 
> i don't even know if this made any sense in the end tbh but i thought it was kinda sweet so :')
> 
> thanks for reading! i hope you enjoyed it all the same! :'D
> 
> (also you can't tell me these two don't sit down and watch GBBO together with a cup of tea judging all of the bakes and laughing at every possible innuendo they hear, smh)
> 
> ((also also, reminder that Antonio was naked that entire time whilst Arthur is chillin in his lovely warm clothes, just in case you needed it heh))


End file.
